Storm
by Shadowy Star
Summary: Damien abhors sailing. But then, something happens to make him change his mind about storms. [DxG]


Storm 

by Shadowy Star

December 2005

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire trilogy. It belongs to C.S. Friedman. I do own this story. Do not archive or translate or otherwise use this story without permission.

**A/N:** An other missing scene, before the beginning of WTNF, onboard of the 'Golden Glory'.

The storm died finally, its fury molten away by the force of the coldfire. The clouds thinned, and sunlight broke brightly through this cover of gray. _God!_ he thought with horror. _The sunlight…_

Pain, hot and sharp and blinding, swept over him, invading him through the link that bound him to the adept – and the adept to him. Then, suddenly, the pain vanished, cut off sharply, as Tarrant lost consciousness.

"Gerald!" Damien cried but the adept didn't hear him already. Tarrant's silk clothes fluttered around him as he fell to the ice-covered planks without making a noise, as if being pierced by that killing light. Damien ran to his side as fast as he could, with his feet sliding uncontrollably on the ice.

He dropped to his knees by Tarrant's side, trying to shield the adept from the sun. Tarrant's pale skin was already reddened, his eyes desperately shut. Damien drew his knife. One cut, and the rope the adept's fingers were still clenched around, gave in with a sharp noise. He braced himself. It would be tricky to drag a grown man over the deck and not to expose him to the sun too much. He sighed. Then, he bent down and scooped up the Hunter's limp body from the deck. His steps went steadier with that additional weight keeping him down and as fast as he dared on the iced surface, he went belowdecks. The ship made its way through the waves, its unpredictable movements of no help at all. Two times Damien staggered and nearly fell. Below the deck, it wasn't any better either. Too many times he was thrown against a wall or some piece of marine equipment its purpose he didn't even know, each time adding more bruises to all the ones he managed to get over the morning, during the storm. He hit one wall with his shoulder, the sharp cracking noise in it and the pain spreading down his spine and into his whole body indicating a more serious injury. From all he could tell, no bones were broken, at least. He ignored the pain and slowly, made his way down.

In Tarrant's cabin –blessedly lit by a small lamp so he could see where to put his feet–, he laid the adept carefully onto the narrow bed. Tarrant's expression was a mask of pain, the fine skin had raised blisters on the right cheek. He lifted his hand to brush away the ice from the adept's hair and face even more carefully, ran his fingers across that perfect features, now nearly unrecognizable. Beneath his fingers the lines of pain smoothed until Tarrant's face looked almost serene. Slowly, Damien started to remove the wet, ragged clothes, baring more of the adept's skin, checking for damage caused by the sun. There were really nasty burns on Tarrant's chest and shoulder – red, blistered skin surrounding flesh black and shrunken, and at his right shoulder –ghostly-white and crusted with dried blood– the edges of scapula and humerus. There were more burns –less nasty, only skin damaged– on his stomach, and his skin was even colder than the ice on his clothes. Damien desperately wished to be able to Heal the injuries. But a true Healing would be as deadly as the sunlight to Tarrant, and he sighed silently at that thought.

After having removed the dripping wet, ice-covered clothes, Damien looked around the cabin –which was larger than his own, _Of course,_ he thought–, searching for a towel. Did Tarrant need towels, anyway? he asked himself dryly. _Most probably not,_ he thought but finally found some in the second drawer to his right. Carefully avoiding to touch the burns, he dried Tarrant's skin. He rubbed at the frozen limbs, trying to reawake whatever kind of blood circulation the Hunter might possess. Running his hands across that silkily smooth skin, so very fine and soft against his callused palms, he wondered distantly what the hell he was doing. Certainly, warmth was not at all what the Hunter needed. He reached out for the adept's right hand that was still clenched tightly around that piece of rope he'd cut through to free him. Carefully, he loosened the stiff, cold –oh, so very cold– fingers from it, uncurling them gently one by one.

Never before in his life he'd felt that helpless. Here, with miles of water between him and the earth-fae, he wouldn't be able to help even if Tarrant were a mortal man. Then again, Tarrant was _not_ a mortal man, and in fact, Damien _did_ know what to do, what was required. He looked at the adept's face. Blood collected in the outer corners of his eyes like tears therefore they must be burned, too. Damien raised his hand to touch that perfect face, avoiding contact with the blisters. Very carefully, he wiped the bloody tears away, then looked at his stained fingers before turning around again. After finally finding what he was looking for –_Never used, of course,_ he thought. _What for?_–, he drew his knife and set its point on his left wrist. Careful to open only the vein and _not_ the artery –which bleeding he might not be able to stop under the circumstances– he pressed the sharp blade into his flesh.

It took its time, and after he was done he had to fight the clouds of unconsciousness fogging the edges of his sight.

"Gerald," he called softly. No response. He slid his arm under the Hunter's neck, lifting the gold-haired head from the pillow. He ran the thumb of his free hand across Tarrant's cold, fine lips to force his mouth open. Then, he brought a mug to those lips. "Drink," he urged. "Drink, damn you!"

Tarrant swallowed instinctively, his body jerking once at the unexpected force of warm, living blood flowing down his throat. After a while, Damien saw a shiver running through the lean body, and the pale lids lifted, with seemingly effort. The eyes behind those lids were completely red, pupil, iris and cornea not dividable. He waved a hand before them but again, short of response came.

"Gerald," he said again, and put another full mug to Tarrant's lips. After this one was emptied, he watched in silence while the red eyes turned silver again and the burns and blisters slowly vanished from the soft skin, restored layer by layer, leaving only red areas behind.

"What's happened?" Tarrant asked, his voice rough and hoarse, barely audible, as if it took too much effort to speak louder. "The storm…?"

"You changed its route," Damien answered softly, bringing the last mug he'd filled to Tarrant's mouth. It took much of his remaining strength to keep the movement certain, not to spill the fluid, as weak as he was now. And there was no way to restore the blood loss by the fae, he'd known that, not here. The silvery gray eyes, clouded with pain and exhaustion, glanced shortly at that, then at the bandage around Damien's wrist, then at his face. And widened, in sudden realization.

"How much of your blood did you give me?"

What was that emotion in the adept's voice, underlying the calmly spoken words? Damien wondered. Confusion? Worry? And if so, because of what? "Don't you try to argue with me," he said with a grin though he didn't feel like laughing. "You know, on board of a ship a healer has nearly as much authority as the captain himself. Drink."

Tarrant swallowed again, hungrily, too weak to protest anymore. Damien held the mug onto those perfect lips until the last drop was gone. The red areas on Tarrant's skin faded away.

"Feeling better?" Damien asked softly.

Tarrant nodded slowly, his expression unreadable once more.

"Then, I'll leave you alone." He turned toward the door. Suddenly, there was a grip around his bandaged wrist, both firm and careful at the same time, causing no pain.

"What about you?" Tarrant asked, his tone gentle, almost tender.

He shrugged, not turning around. "I'm fine," he answered hoarsely, trying to free his wrist from the adept's grip without getting the cut open again, but the chill fingers were strong and did not let go.

"Damien," Gerald Tarrant said. "Thank you."

Slowly, he turned around. The adept's face was set, giving away nothing, but in the silver depths of his eyes something unfamiliar was sparkling brightly, something very human. A last drop of blood hung on the lashes of an eye. Without thinking, Damien reached out with his free hand and wiped it away.

A faint smile curled Gerald's lips, and he took that hand, too, pulling Damien down, pressing a light kiss to the fingers of both his hands.

Damien hesitated for a brief moment, a thousand thoughts whirling through his mind, his disordered emotions overwhelming him. But there was no way to resist the cool, soft lips working wickedly on his palms and then on his mouth as he was drawn closer. For once, the cold of Gerald's body wasn't unpleasant anymore, and he reached out to touch, running his hands across that fine skin as he'd done before. There were urgent hands on his back, pulling him even closer, slender hands, confident and strong, and then lips on his own again, and the touch of a tongue against the corner of his mouth. He brushed silky hair from that beautiful face, letting his fingers run through those soft strands. A hand shoved him back slightly, and he obeyed only to find these hands on his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. He slid one arm beneath Gerald's back and pulled him up into a kiss, into an embrace.

The ship swayed dangerously, sending them both to the cabin's floor, and Damien managed to avoid landing on Gerald but to catch him and let him land on his own body instead. He hissed sharply as his injured shoulder hit the floor, all his bruises and small gashes burning suddenly with thousand little sparks of pain. But it didn't matter. Gerald rolled aside, a worried look in his pale eyes. Then, Damien's shirt was shoved from his shoulders unceremoniously, and a gentle hand brushed feather-lightly across his many bruises. A soft wave of coldfire was sent carefully through the link and the touch into his body, deadening the pain – all but, not quite, almost a Healing.

"You'll never learn how to sail, will you?" Gerald whispered, his silver eyes twinkling brightly.

He pulled Gerald down, winding his fingers into his hair, covering the fine lips with his, tasting wonderful ice and darkness with his tongue. The kiss was answered with desperate hunger, the tongue driven into his mouth almost merciless in its determination. Equally determined hands were removing his clothes, skillful, teasing.

Drawing back slightly to take a look at that man in his arms, Damien smiled, catching his breath. "No chance," he muttered against Gerald's mouth. "I abhor the ocean. But somehow I do think that I've come to love storms."


End file.
